Nothing Sadder Than a Glass of Wine Alone
by lsquaredeast
Summary: This is post 7.1 Time Zones and came about for two reasons: 1) I keep listening to the Solomon Burke song Cry to Me and I think it's one of the sexiest, most melancholy songs and 2) I wanted to see Ted fall apart in much the same way Peggy did.


**Nothing Sadder Than a Glass of Wine Alone**

The words on the menu blurred. Ted had been staring at the list of pasta dishes since he was first seated at the round table for two. The waiter returned for his order and the only thing Ted had considered was not going back to California at all.

"I'll have the ziti con vodka," he said.

"Very good, sir," the waiter replied, taking the menu from him. "Would you like wine with your dinner?"

Ted glanced at the glass of water sweating on the tablecloth. "Yes. What do you recommend?"

"We have a lovely Cabernet Sauvignon from the Sonoma-"

"That will be fine," Ted said. He stared down at the white cloth, his silverware leaving a space for an oversized bowl of pasta. He tried to imagine the cloth as a piece of paper he could use to make mental notes about Sunkist and Chevy, but his mind wandered to a dark movie theater and plane rides to the Ocean Spray factory and soft lips trailing kisses down his torso.

The waiter returned and placed the Cabernet in front of Ted.

"Thank you," Ted told him, lightly gripping the stem of the glass. He took a sip and let the wine rest on his tongue a moment. He took another drink and stared at the empty chair across from him. Ted set the glass down and pressed his closed fist to his chest, pushing against a pain that pulsed there every day. He felt a void on the other side of the table but it wasn't his wife he was missing.

x

"I hate Ted."

Stan looked up from his sketchbook to where Peggy was stretched across the small couch in her office, an ashtray propped on her chest. "No, you don't," he said, his pencil continuing to draw the shadows of a couple walking on a cobblestone street. "You hate the decision he made."

Peggy stubbed her cigarette out in the bottom of the ashtray and sat up, throwing one leg over the side of the couch. "He shows up here eager to get to work and makes toast like… like…"

"Like nothing terrible happened?" Stan offered.

Peggy eased her other foot onto the floor and set the ashtray on the arm of the couch. "Exactly. He's laughing with Cutler and taking Moira to lunch."

"He's trying to move on. Which is what you should be doing," Stan told her, his eyes tilted down. His pencil never stopped stroking the paper.

"I'm leaving," Peggy said, plucking her coat off the hook on the back of the door. She had to backtrack to find her hat and gloves and her hip knocked into the back of Stan's chair.

He dropped the pencil and dragged a hand down his face, scratching through his beard. He craned his neck to watch Peggy wrestle into her coat and open the door. "Hey," he called out, and she stopped. "The guy has been in California for two months and looks like he hasn't seen the sun in longer than that."

Peggy stood in the doorway, her back to him. She held her breath for a beat and then said, "I'm going home."

x

The bill was paid but the waiter offered more wine. Ted covered the top of the glass with his hand and said, "No, thank you." It was tempting to accept more – to fuel a long night of work, to temper his yearning, to ignite the courage he needed to let go or to give in. But he knew that whatever he did, it should be with a clear mind.

He declined taking what was left of his pasta, which was almost the entire plate. He had picked at the noodles and moved them around in a way that always got his youngest son in trouble at the dinner table. Ted had realized the moment the food arrived that he shouldn't have taken himself out to dinner; he should have eaten a bagel in his office with a cold cup of coffee.

Ted slipped into his coat and gloves. He tied his scarf. He braced himself for the cold and pushed through the heavy doors. Work was to the left and Ted made a sharp right down the sidewalk.

x

There was nothing to watch on television. Her eyes were too tired for reading. Peggy poured a glass of wine, turned out all of the lights, and sat on the edge of her bed. She scooted back until she was leaning against the wall, her legs stretched in front of her. She was next to the window and listened to the traffic and the occasional conversation of passersby. Peggy heard the main door to the building open and close and knew Julio was burning steam jumping up and down the stoop.

She stared straight ahead at nothing in particular. Peggy tried to turn her thoughts to Accutron, but she was stuck in the small space of the break room with Ted. She was surrounded by the smell of toast and his cologne, the woodsy fragrance she had been trying to eliminate from her bed and her memory for months.

x

Ted knew he should turn around, but he had convinced himself that standing outside of Peggy's building was something he needed to do. That it would be a coda to their disintegration. Some kind of closure. That he would look at the place where she lived, where she had a life, and he could validate his decision to break her heart and his. Or maybe he could catch a glimpse of her through the window and be able to see her without being seen, without Peggy staring daggers of hatred in his direction.

It was a bad idea and would ultimately accomplish nothing good, but Ted rounded the corner and approached Peggy's address. He slowed his pace when he noticed a young boy, coat discarded on the ground, jumping up and down the stairs. When he reached the stoop, Ted saw that the boy had arranged green plastic army men and toy planes in various patterns up and down the stairs.

"That's a Mitsubishi A6M," Ted said, pointing to the plastic fighter jet the boy was holding aloft. "It was built during the second World War."

Julio narrowed his eyes. "Do you live here?" he asked.

Ted shook his head. "No," he said, barely audible – a sad, sorry whisper.

"Are you my mom's friend?"

"No."

"Whose friend are you?" Julio asked.

The smile that lifted the corners of Ted's mouth betrayed him; tears stung his eyes and he couldn't respond until he cleared his throat. "Ms. Olson's," he said. "I know Peggy. Is she home?"

Julio glanced at the window into Peggy's apartment. "I haven't seen her. Do you know which one this is?" he asked, picking up another plastic airplane with a broken wing.

Ted took a step closer and squinted. He accepted the toy from Julio and inspected it. "That's a Soviet fighter jet," he told the boy. "It was called the Fritz." He handed it back.

"Are you going to wait here?"

Ted looked at the window. He could tell there were no lights on behind the curtain. "I don't think so."

"Want me to tell her something? I'm always telling her things for my mom."

Ted looked at the boy, his cheeks and the tip of his nose red. "Thank you, but I probably need to tell Peggy myself."

x

Peggy drew her legs up to her chest and clutched her glass of wine, her knuckles white. She listened to Ted's voice and wanted it to stop and wanted it to never end. She moved suddenly, spilling wine on the sheets as she maneuvered off the bed. Peggy slipped her feet into the first pair of shoes she came across in the dark and dragged an afghan from the sofa with her into the hallway.

She opened the front door and saw that Ted was walking away. He stopped and turned toward her.

"Julio, I heard your mom calling for you," Peggy said. She had the afghan haphazardly wrapped around her shoulders and was still holding onto her wine.

The boy looked at her, not moving.

"Julio, go inside."

He rolled his eyes and stepped over his army men and planes. He stomped inside and slammed the door behind him.

"I didn't think… I wasn't going to…" Ted stammered.

"What did you want to tell me?" Peggy asked.

The air drained from his lungs. "Can I come in?"

"No," she said, not missing a beat. "I remember what happened the last time I found you at my door."

Ted looked down at his feet.

Peggy heaved a sigh, as though he were keeping her from something important.

He climbed the stairs until he was mere inches from her. The proximity made Peggy's knees buckle and she reached her free hand out to grip the railing. That side of the blanket drooped to the ground, revealing her pajama top, the wide collar offering a generous view of her collarbone and the soft skin between her breasts. Ted fixed his eyes on her face and whispered, "I'm sorry."

She dropped her chin to her chest as he climbed another step, pressing his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes and felt his breath warming her cold skin. Peggy knew if she tilted her head a certain way their lips would touch. She pushed back, stumbling closer to the door and leaving him open mouthed on the stairs. She felt pressure at her temples and a sob climbing up her throat. Peggy swallowed hard and resisted the urge to crumble right there on the stoop. She found her voice, hoping it came out stronger than it sounded to her own ears. "You shouldn't have come here."

Ted held onto both sides of the railing. He stared up at her as she let herself back into the building, pulling the blanket behind her. He flinched when the door slammed.

Peggy tripped on the blanket as it tangled around her feet. She kicked it away as she entered her apartment and closed and locked the door. She drained the rest of her wine and dropped the glass onto the sofa, and it rolled to the space between the cushions. She climbed back onto her bed and lifted the curtain just enough to see the front steps. She was surprised to see that Ted hadn't moved. He was looking down at the concrete and when he lifted his head, she saw streaks of tears down his face. She watched him drop down onto his knees, and then sit sideways on the step, pushing the heel of his hand against his eyes.


End file.
